Literate Ape is a literary digital 'zine and a dumping place for the random musings of a small shrewdness of diverse apes who managed to learn to read and write and use computers.

ABOUT THE APES IN CHARGE

Don Hall — co-editor

Don Hall is a freelance events consultant, founder of Literate Ape and author of four books including Belief is a Sledgehammer, Like a Burning Moth With No Idea How He Caught on Fire, and Strippers, Guns, and the Holocaust Museum.

David Himmel — co-editor

David Himmel is the author of the books A Camp Story and the forthcoming The Last DJ. An award-winning journalist, he is a contributor to POLITICO and is the former editor in chief of Chicago Health magazine.

It was a glorious day in the nation’s capital. We picked up beverages and laid out on the lawn, toasting the Washington Monument as it glinted in the sunlight. I fleetingly wondered how things were going at the conference; not well to be sure, given that the delegation from the United States was busy drinking malt liquor out of brown bags on Capitol Hill. The entire Model UN was probably falling apart.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Thomas grabs Anthony by the arm. Anthony shrugs and whispers, “It feels like performance art, maybe. Not sure.” Colin overhears and adds leaning in, “Let’s just keep an eye on him.” Surprisingly, nobody leaves. However uncomfortable they’ve been made at the start of this evening, they are all intrigued and intend to see how this plays out.

A Parent/Teacher Conference. Mom stands next to Dad, looking slightly annoyed. Dad, on the other hand, looks pissed. And the eighth grade turd who frequently stirs up trouble in class and is thereby the target of some of my more creative punitive measures, is looking so pleased that Mr. Hall is finally going to get it.

The President of The United States pushed them together into a little crumb hill as I spoke. “So, okay,” I replied, “just so we are clear, sir, are you suggesting that I provide you with a photograph of how our allies feel about us—”

I hope we get to hold them down and carve a giant “T” into their thick fucking skulls before this is all over — although I imagine history has far worse in store for them. The “T” is for Traitor, of course, although that word will become synonymous with Trump in due time.

Gillette doesn’t feel like a sales pitch. It feels genuine. It is a marketing success. But also, “Buy our razors because Dollar Shave Club and Harry’s ain’t woke like we are.” There’s just no escaping it, for-profit companies need our money, and they’ll do anything to get it. In this case, Gillette did it right.

The concept that if I say my pain is real, it must be real, and if you don't suffer from my pain, my pain is in some part your fault so just listen to me as I yell in your face about your need for shame and contrition.

Due to a recent death in the family and through a very specific set of circumstances, a peculiar history if you will, several generations of things including furniture, dishes and glassware, books, family photographs, art created and collected by family members, plus handwritten notes, cards, diaries, etc. have accumulated in one house which I find myself compelled to look through.

When the Universe grants the food pellets to the rats who squall the most vociferously the message is simple and obvious. Blowfish the shit out of your daily problems. Go online and type your grievances ALL IN CAPS SO THAT EVERYONE KNOWS HOW GODDAMN PISSED YOU ARE!

You don’t need balloons or cupcakes to be excited about learning your baby’s sex. And yes, it’s a sex. It’s never gender. Gender is a social construct, and for even the most pro-life pro-lifers out there, an unborn child/fetus/uterine turd cannot, by the laws of science, be socialized. Talk to it, play music for it, fine. You can’t make it like pink or blue in the womb. If you need to be surprised about your baby’s sex, listen to what your OB or midwife tells you during pregnancy, or at the time of birth. Getting all geared up over the sex of a child is exactly why we have sexism. So, please, for the sake of our future, knock it the fuck off.

The events I record now are hardly my own, but rather a tale of an extraordinary detective and his ever-faithful friend. I was merely along for the ride. This is a tale most grim about a case that would become one of America’s most unsolved mysteries.